The Promise
by Earendilion
Summary: Finwë made Fëanáro a promise he couldn't keep.


_**Then Fëanor ran from the Ring of Doom, and fled into the night; for his father was dearer to him than the Light of Valinor or the peerless works of his hands; and who among sons, of Elves or of Men, have held heir fathers of greater worth?**_

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Finwë woke to the sound of crying.

He lay for a moment in his solitary bed, thinking of the one who should have lain next to him, who's warmth he should have felt against his own, who would have woken at the first suggestion of tears before he could so much as take a breath.

"_Ammë!_"

His stupor broke abruptly, and he leapt out of his bed and sped towards his son's adjoining room, his arms reaching for the boy and gathering him into a crushing embrace.

"What is it, Curufinwë, my son?" he murmured urgently, stroking black hair and turning the small, tear-streaked face up to his. "What has caused you such distress?"

"Atar," Curufinwë choked, "Atar, where is Ammë?"

Finwë felt his mouth go dry and his throat close up. Trying and failing to swallow several times, he pressed his son's face into his shoulder and held him fiercely. He was all he had left. All he had left of her. His little fire spirit. His Fëanáro.

He remembered vaguely a time when he had been angry with the child, or as angry as a father can be with his first-born son. It was he who had sapped the life from Míriel, he knew. He had been forced to watch her fade, and his anger with his child grew, until he finally saw his frustration and sorrow reflected in his young son's eyes, mingled with confusion as to why his beloved mother was so frail and weak, she alone in this among the Eldalië.

It was then that he realized that his son, being far from an enemy to be cursed and blamed, was a companion spirit upon his dark road, a fellow sufferer, one to share in his pain and comfort him in his time of need. Indeed, how could this child know what he had done? How could he blame a babe, and lay such a condemnation on its innocent shoulders?

"Curufinwë," he managed, his voice a dull rasp. "Fëanáro, Ammë has… Ammë has… gone away, my beloved."

Curufinwë's face looked to his again, incomprehension in his dark, clever eyes.

"I do not understand, Atar," he whispered, wiping his tears away in agitation. "Why does she not come back to us, then?"

"Curufinwë," Finwë repeated, his breath becoming more ragged by the second. He suddenly felt hot tears spilling out of his eyes and down his cheeks. "Fëanáro, my son, my son…" He drew his child to him and wept bitterly as Curufinwë clung to his tunic silently, face buried in his father's neck. "She cannot come back, my little one," he said, finally forcing him to look the child in the face. "She has gone, and cannot come back."

Curufinwë stared at him. "Why, Atar?" His question was little more than a breath, though it hung heavy and poisonous in the air.

Finwë took the innocent face in his hands and kissed it repeatedly, tenderly as was fathers' wont, and desperately as one losing everything he held dear. "My son, I cannot answer. It is in the design of the One. She… forsook life, and fled to where her fëa may yet find healing and peace."

"But did she not love us, Atar?" Curufinwë asked, his voice laced with panic.

"Fëanáro, she loved you above all else in this wide universe," he said gently, smiling upon his son for the first time that night. "This you must never forget. It was not you who caused your mother to go where we would not. She loved… loves you, Fëanáro, and would wish you no guilt or grief."

_And yet, my son,_ he thought to himself, watching as Curufinwë struggled to understand his father's words, brow furrowed, _you alone of the Eldalië will know this grief, ever and anon. At least, you are the first, and so are burdened and marked apart._

"Atar," Curufinwë whispered finally, after a long silence, "are you going to leave, as well?"

Horrified, Finwë embraced Curufinwë again, wrapping him in strong and steady warmth and strength. "No, no, my son," he gasped. "Never. Never will I leave you."

Turning in Finwë's hold, Curufinwë in turn took his father's face in his small, able hands, looking at him with a sternness beyond his years. "Can you promise me, Atar? Promise you will not leave as Ammë did! Please!" His last word was a high plea of desperation. He was begging his father.

"I promise, my love," Finwë said firmly, but gently, his whole heart going into his vow. "I promise I will never leave you. I love you, Fëanáro."

"I love you, too, Atar."

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Fëanáro burst through the mangled gates of Formenos in a whirl of fury and fire, his sword blazing despite the lack of light, his eyes as one gone mad. Weeping and sorrowed cries reached his ears through the darkness ahead, and he ran on through the courtyard until he reached the great doors of his household.

The doors had been smashed and devastated, the once proud wood marred, twisted, and charred beyond all recognition. Debris scattered the courtyard, and flames still licked nearby greenery, as well as the foundations of his house. His sons stood gathered around the door, as well as those who had accompanied them into exile, their faces tearstained and stricken.

But it was not these that caused his sword to drop, clattering on the cold courtyard stone, from his ever-steady hand. It was not these that caused the roar of agony and lamentation to clamor from his mouth and echo into the night.

Before the doors was a body, bloody and broken, sprawled in a last insult to the honor and pride of the one who had so bravely fallen when all others fled in their cowardly terror.

Fëanáro stood still then, his breathing labored, hands shaking, oblivious to the sounds of his own shriek dying in the air. The only thought in the brilliant, calculating mind was one of disbelief. For the first time in his life, Fëanáro was paralyzed with shock. Neither his mind nor his body would obey him. His eyes filled with the vision of his father's blasphemed body, and his imagination created the scene of his death, playing it in his mind over and over again.

And then, Fëanáro was broken. He swayed on the spot, shaking turning to violent trembling. No. His father could not be dead. No.

_Never will I leave you. I promise I will never leave you._

"_NO!_"

Fëanáro hurled the word into the darkness before staggering forward and dropping to his knees, crawling to his father and gathering him into his arms, eyes searching the pale, bloody face.

"No, Atar, no," he murmured furiously. "No." He refused to believe it. It was not happening. He was a child again; there was no sense in the world – only what should be. And yet, the only argument he could find against his father's death was the one.

"You promised," he reminded the corpse in his arms, his voice rising to a horrible crescendo before collapsing into sporadic, uncontrollable sobs. "You promised… you promised…"

Fëanáro buried his head in his father's lifeless chest, and wept.

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**A/N** My apologies to Fëanor. It has always intrigued me, however, that Fëanor was the first – and, at that time, probably the only – Elf to lose both his parents, at least in Valinor. _The Silmarillion_ states that Míriel was the first to fade in such a way. Considering this, his actions and mentality are somehow understandable. It truly tore me up to write this, though, despite all the interesting psychological facets. I hope it was worth it.


End file.
